


Alex Reagan Does The Pacific Northwest

by JohnlockAndATardis



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, Female Masturbation, Fingering, Ironic Titles, Marijuana Use, Masturbation, Office Sex, Other, PWP, Smut, Solo, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7720423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockAndATardis/pseuds/JohnlockAndATardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be fair, conservative sexual activity had always been more of Nic's thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loneliness is the Best Kind of Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> Alex just wanted to sleep.

     Alex had not slept properly in what felt like months. It had started somewhere in season one, with nightmares so vivid they kept her awake the rest of the night and would haunt her psyche for days on end, or shadows creeping into her vision when she was on the brink of falling asleep. For a time it could be easily excused, pushed away to the corner of her mind in favor of work, chasing down some mystery to ignore the ones in her mind. But through the hiatus she had begun... Losing touch. Nic had been the first one to notice it -of course he was- when she'd meant to be searching down leads for the new season and had found herself instead staring down at her laptop for an entire forty five minutes, doing absolutely nothing, not even blinking really. When these episodes got worse (one almost happening when she had been driving) Nic had gotten serious about getting her some help.

 

     About that. It wasn't to say that Dr. Bernier was completely ineffectual -the tips seemed pretty decent, and from what she'd heard they were fairly standard- but she wasn't suited to Alex, more specify to what was happening _to_ Alex. Honestly, she wasn't certain that anyone was suited to her needs, not since The Black Tapes had launched and thrown her into chaos. Alex was simply frustrated, frustrated that she hadn't gotten anywhere with her insomnia, frustrated with how she was feeling, with the lagging in her mind. She was tired of being tired, about ready to resort to just about any means.

 

     Well, _about ready_ was an understatement, by more than just a bit. She had a joint smoking beside her on the nightstand, filling her room with fog that reminded Alex of her days as a youth in Canada. Christ, that had been fun. In university particularly, when she spent her free time trying to forget about term papers by storing to mind the bodies of students lost to carnal pleasure. There had been a woman once, whose inky hair glowed blue under black lights and who had tattoos dotting her spine in the shape of the moon's phases. Alex had loved to visit each one, to kiss them and make them shine like red giants, violets blooming from their core. And then the actions would be reciprocated, of course, because it was college and experimenting was cool. God... A heat struck down her body at the thought, and Alex felt herself warming at the memory. She reached again for the blunt, took a long drag and watched smoke blow out her lips, leaving a haze in the room and a cloud in her mind. Past lovers, there had been so many, their kisses dotting her skin again like all of the ghosts she never thought she might revisit. The journalist groaned, set aside the pot before it lit her up any further, a flame already ignited inside of her that would not go away.

 

     She thought of the first time she kissed Amalia, didn't let herself wonder where she might be. Fingers wandered across her body, five travelers working their way along the plains of her stomach, dipping down below her sweatpants like eager explorers. How long had it been? She had kept herself so busy with the podcast, with everything related to it, that she'd neglected herself. What for? She couldn't remember why... Something about Strand and his eyes, his stupid, stupid blue eyes that stared into her soul like they might at any time begin to undress her.

 

     Alex kicked off her pants, her tank top came with it. She didn't have patience enough to tug off her socks, didn't bother fumbling with her bra as she pulled down the cups. Her fingers wandered up, pinched at her nipples and teased them to erectness. Fuck it all, that felt good. Damn good. Alex keened, arched herself into her own touch and rolled her fingers against the taut peaks. She could feel a wetness growing between her legs, squeezed her thighs together and clenched the muscles of her sex, let herself feel the way that they contracted as a hand wandered down. It traversed her stomach, palm flat against her belly, fingers teasing past her ribs, one side to another, then slipping past. Alex didn't touch herself _there_ , not yet anyway, choosing instead to touch her thumb to her thighs. It's a contact that made her gasp, even with how mulled the weed had made her senses, and Alex's fingers bit into the flesh there, nails leaving crescents where she longed for lips to be. Her spare hand left her breast, fumbled across the bed to her dresser, tugging it open. Somewhere inside, past panties she'd reserved for dates and stockings that would make her blush to ever be seen in (bought by Amalia as a joke), she found the slim plastic toy that fit easily into her hand. Tugging it free of some unruly strap, Alex's fingers worked greedily at the base, fumbling against the knob until it turned and let loose a familiar buzz.

 

     "Thank fuck," Alex huffed urgently, pushing the drawer shut and trailing the slim vibe against her thigh. The silicone was like skin on her flesh, a thousand little fingers teasing so close to where she needed it most. Down and down she let the toy slip, around her leg and against her inner thigh, then up past her hip, at the seam which held together the expanse of her legs, until finally, finally, she stopped teasing herself.

 

     Through the damp cotton of her underwear, the buzzing was both too much and not enough. Alex cried out at the first muted contact with her cunt, her back arching again and her toes curling deep into the bed. Fingers wandered up, tugged at her hair, and Alex could not take it any longer. She ripped aside her underwear, freeing the heat of her sex to the cool air, and more urgently to the touch of the vibe. It circled her clit, drawing wetness up before the intensity hits her head on. Alex moaned, the sound creeping out of her lips followed by a desperate pant as she maintained that pressure, that pleasure. She wondered, for a moment as her hand pulled again at the dark of her locks, what it might be like if that was someone else touching her, Tannis or Amalia again, or Jesus fuck, Doctor Strand, if those were their fingers tugging at her scalp. The thought sent a tremor down her body, and Alex had to slow her motions before the intensity became too much.

 

     She let her hand travel further down, circling the vibe against the lips of her vulva, like a tongue teasing against her urgency before slowly, slowly slipping down. It trailed the entire edge of her want and caught against her desire before sinking deep in.

 

 _"Fuuuuuckkkkk,"_ she sighed out, long and low, a hiss breaking through her clenched teeth. Alex's heart pounded in her chest, she pushed her hips back and then up, legs thrown open wide to give herself access as her second hand came down. There was no more time for waiting -she couldn't even fathom delaying this any further. Middle finger sinking down, Alex gathered her own wetness and then circled around her clitoris, pressure hardest as her finger pushed aside the hood each time it came around. She moved her digit fast, in a practiced pace as familiar as breathing, until that very breath became uncertain and unsteady, quickening as her fingers trembled. Alex's other hand, the hand holding the vibe, worked it faster and faster inside of her, and she knew she was getting close, she was almost there. She took a breath, took another, felt it fill her lungs before it escaped again with a strangled cry. Her body pulled up until head, shoulders and feet were all that remained planted down, her orgasm extending into her toes like liquid heat through her veins, and when her body fell down she didn't stop, didn't still her middle digit circling and circling until it became too much, until the trembles in her thighs became erratic twitching and she was almost crying from bliss and relief, from oversensitivity which threatened to turn her world into a streak of white light and little else.

     Alex hardly could remember to remove the toy and turn it off before she fell into a gloriously dreamless sleep.


	2. I Dreamt One Day I Might Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't know what her attraction is to the Strands, nor why they keep popping up in her sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally written for Every Which Way, and takes place at some point after 2.11.

     Coralee's eyes touched her before her fingers ever found the breadth of Alex's flesh, the wanting, desperate heat of her skin so eager for her. They started at her lips, wandered down the plump surfaces cast with a berry hue, then breezed their way along the curve of her neck, teasing all the delicate flesh that lay there. Alex's collarbones longed to be kissed, but she endured the teasing, tantalizing ghost touches instead. And then the gaze was gone, traveling south again, wandering. It slipped down the scoop of Alex's top, further past until it reached the hem of her shirt where it rested, revealing only a hint of her soft white flesh, the onset of her hip, so fair that it practically cried out to be dyed at the hands of a lover's touch. Nervous fingers twitched at Alex's side, her own, longing to remove the garment for the woman who stood before her. She waited instead, until the eyes had passed the heather shorts she wore, surveyed her thighs, marking the three freckles that formed an acute triangle just below where her shorts no longer could hide. Coralee took her in all the way to her calves, her ankles, her toes and their flecks of forest green polish, like a historian or an artist, both regarding a puzzling masterpiece. She would know every inch of her inside out by the time they were done, but for no good reason at all. Coralee looked into her eyes. She knew the thoughts that crossed her mind. Alex swallowed hard, a dog eager to sit at the beautiful woman's most abrupt command. She was given no such thing, a game reserved for a different night.

     Coralee placed a hand at Alex's shoulder, cleared away all thought as the other came to slide up, up, pressure against her skin, thumb grazing her windpipe before a   
and cup her neck. A wandering thumb tipped her head up, nudged her chin in a wordless demand, one which Alex followed quickly, surrendering easily beneath the touch as her head tilted up. The two women met eyes, Alex gazing so long into Coralee's own of endless darkness that she could see foreign stars and all their constellations.

    The gaze broke, Coralee pulled her closer by just a touch, their lips coming greedily together. Alex found herself near to gasping against the other's mouth, Coralee hot and wet and demanding as she snaked a hand into Alex's hair, pulling her in, controlling the tempo, and it was everything the journalist had wanted since she's first laid eyes upon Coralee. Alex moaned into it, leaning in for more, fingers wandering out, grasping for the elder woman's hips if only to have something to hold. Coralee's flesh was cool where she touched it, until Alex trailed her fingers up and found that the spark of skin on skin set them both aflame. The slow boil of urgency threatened to boil over, but Coralee had experience, she was practiced. She led them both to the bed, until the back of Alex's knees bumped against the base. Alex cried softly out as she was pushed back, landing against the mattress with her breath at a quick and heavy pace.

     Coralee smiled. She drew closer, knelt upon the bed with a cat-like and devious expression. Alex's eyes stared up with a sort of remarkable shock within them, watching with a look almost of reverence as Coralee Strand drew her finger down her shirt, and with a single, dagger-sharp nail tore through the fabric as though it were spun sugar. The cotton melted away from Alex's skin, her shorts soon to follow suit, until she was left naked before Coralee's probing eyes but for a pale violet bra and the soft grey of her underwear. Coralee's grin grew. She was a predator, with one goal: to devour Alex Reagan. Her fingers slipped down Alex's chest, let wander the digits against her skin as those same sharp nails ran upon her stomach, drawing to a heavy flush the flesh beneath. Alex keened, arched from the bed as her back curved up, drawing herself toward the pain as it rose and rose, then fell to become pleasure.

     The nails retracted, seeming then to have grown shorter and smoother as a finger wound down. It teased its way from hip to hip, against the lacy band of her panties in a warning tease. Alex shivered underneath even this most delicate, feather-light of touches, squeezing her eyes shut in relieved delight as that digit finally hooked against her panties and pulled them away, greedy to reveal her intimacies to the world. Next came her bra, its tricky clasp seeming unhooked by magical prompting, and before Alex even knew it, both items lay in a heap upon her bedroom floor.

     She was exposed, but God was she was a sight. Her fair skin, dotted with the sun's speckled kisses, had in many places turned pink in its desperation to be touched, like a marble statue splotched with human hues. Out from thick lashes she stared, the wanting in her eyes as clear as it was in the way her bountiful chest heaved, her breasts rising and falling, thick with need. Everything was exacerbated by Coralee, all the pleasure and sensation and desire set to overdrive by the sheer sight of Coralee. She was tall and dominant above Alex with a dragon's tail of dark, black-brown hair falling in thick streaks down her glorious golden back. A notable wetness glistened in the space between her legs at such a visage, and it was this wetness to which Coralee's eyes were soon drawn. A tap at her knees bid them part, to give access to this woman who was still a stranger to her. Alex's thighs fell open, she did not break her focus upon the woman.

     But then, when Coralee skimmed her fingers over the dampness of her flesh, Alex thought she might already come apart. Surely there was magic in that touch, for her fingers were like silk against the warmth of her intimacy, with a knowing, practiced pressure that slipped along her clitoris, a single teasing thumb drawing down to make Alex weep with joy. Coralee chuckled, leant down as she captured Alex's clit between forefinger and middle to press a kiss to it, to make love to the rose bud. Alex's fingers wound desperately into the sheets, a panted gasp of air leaving her lungs.

     "Ah... _ah_!" She exclaimed in surprise, Coralee's tongue flashing out. It tasted her wetness, the dewy nectar which she created, before slithering away, a veritable serpent. From Coralee there came a laugh, two fingers wandering down, teasing along her crest, soaking themselves in her desire before they pushed in. Another whimper escaped Alex, strained and needy as she pushed her hips up. Coralee's hand braced against her body, eased her down.

     "Not until I say," she breathed, and Alex, still eager to please, fell back like Coralee had focused gravity upon her. She looked up, looked pleadingly at Coralee, made the woman's name a beggar's Chang upon her lips. For this, she was rewarded. Those fingers pressed deeper, tested the journalist's ability to give. In this she did not disappoint, and was rewarded with the smooth glide of those digits, pressing further, filling her where it was needed most. They were clever and well trained, and hooked up within her delicate pink sex to tease at the spot deep within Alex that felt like paradise in that moment. Electrified, Alex whined in sheer pleasure, too much but not enough, as though nothing in the world ever could in that moment be. Coralee seemed to know how close Alex already was, kept her pace cautious and slow as her thumb wandered its path against the most sensitive skin. Her free hand found its way up, traveled past Alex's belly button, brushed experimentally at her ribs to earn a flushed-face whimper before the careful fingers caught her nipple and rolled it against their touch.

     Alex cried out. Coralee smirked, bent her head to wrap her lips about that flesh. How talented those lips were! Alex had always been a horrid poet, but if she were one in need of inspiration she would look only to those lips. They teased her like petals, so soft that the touch could only bring goosebumps to her fevered flesh, and then with a sweeping tongue and a long, solid moment of pressure Alex was again rising from the mattress below.

     The touch fled. Coralee smiled, placed herself over Alex until their bodies ran parallel. Her fingers shifted, pressed deeper, then retreated. They wandered up Alex's torso, up and up past her neck until the journalist could taste her own desire upon her lips. "Behave," Coralee uttered, and then the fingers were back, a third joining down with a slow, cautious and measured tease. The stretch was delicious, those fingers filling her in ways she in so long had not been, until they felt almost like too much. Coralee bowed her head again, licking greedily at Alex's nipple as her fingers dragged against each wanting nerve in her body. Alex mewled, clutched again at the sheets, her breath a broken gasp whenever teeth teased in the mockery of sharpness or pressure against her breast.

     The three fingers pressed deeper. They slipped further inside, opened Alex up and worked against parts of herself she had never known. Their motions were languid as Coralee against found Alex's clit with her thumb, one digit slipping out so that the others could place a strategic assault against the pad of tissue and nerves in a way that was far, far too much for her to take.   
Now Coralee matched her thumb to the rhythm of her fingers, pressed down and rubbed against the needy, desperate little organ which protruded like an eager spring flower. Her hips arched up to meet these touches, her toes began to curl into the bed. Coralee's peppered kisses crossed her chest, licked up the delicate mortal veins within her neck, until they found for a second time her lips and bit, just harsh enough to tear the sensitive skin and bring it to bleed. Heat flushed down her spine and Alex cried out in delight, her body coming off the bed like a religious experience, everything set to combust and then again to realign, her depths pulsating greedily, eagerly as orgasm washed over her. The whole of her body hit nirvana all at once, carried her soul into the clouds and beyond, until her pleasure became its own constellation, the heated tidal wave of desire becoming the only thing she knew.

     Then, Alex fell down through the clouds, landing back upon the softness of the mattress. It was morning, and the distant sun was bleeding an inky blue into the world. She was alone in her bed, draped in a sheet and the clothes she had worn the day before, no evidence of any other person having been within this space. It was a dream, Alex told herself with a sigh of relief, doing her best to ignore the metallic taste upon her tongue.


	3. You Taste Like My Sweetest Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard Strand reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love the idea of Alex/Strand, and the dynamic of their relationship. For this one, I chose to write Strand a little closer to how he is in the canon than how I typically tend to write him in my own fanon. He's more dominant than I would typically write him during a sexual exchange between the two, but ultimately also very giving.

     Richard Strand poured himself a tall glass of scotch and watched as the faux fireplace in his quiet study flickered with artificial light. It had been a point the realtor had used to market the house - clean, efficient, and aesthetically pleasing. But Strand, no matter how much an enjoyer of fine architectural and design features, had not bought the home for the fireplace. It was the cold, almost clinical modern appeal that had drawn him in, with monochromatic walls and a sterile, minimalistic style. Now those walls seemed to be laughing at him, in that great literary personification and materialization of his guilt. He had been sharp with Alex today, had snapped at her for losing the skeptic's perspective when Strand himself wasn't all that sure he still possessed it. Richard knew he was holding her to a higher standard, and he didn't have to wonder why. He could still see the fury in her eyes as she struck him, could taste her lips on his own, feel her fingers wrapping around his tie and tugging him closer.

 

     Strand felt an involuntary twitch in his pressed gray trousers as warmth pooled at his navel. After Coralee, he'd stopped trying. What was the point? Relationships had only done to cause him suffering, and Richard had no more room in his life for loss and heartache. He wasn't a teenager, wasn't a young man anymore. His prime had come and gone, and Richard knew what people thought of him. _Doctor Strand_ , they called his name, like a sneer or with the same mix of despise and reverence religious groups reserve for their most specific sinners. The words had stopped bothering him, had rolled off of his shoulders like rain upon a rooftop.

     But Alex was different. She had respected his work to begin with. Strand knew he was an object of curiosity for her, a mystery she couldn't fully unravel no matter how many loose threads she pulled. Their relationship reminded him of the maroon sweater he'd pushed off her shoulders that afternoon, standing in her cluttered office at Pacific Northwest Stories's Seattle studio. There had been so many loose ends just begging to be tugged, at the hem and on the sleeves, where the damage was more visible. He wondered now if Alex's fingers caught and pulled at those threads when she was nervous. He remembered the feeling of her hands on his skin, unbuttoning his shirt and discarding it across the room like it was something abhorrent.

     She had looked so beautiful there, afternoon sun streaking through the blinds and catching her warm skin. If he was a religious man, Richard might have said that she looked like a goddess, like something holy. Religious or not, he had been tongue-tied looking at her, eager for more. With the anticipation of a man with decades less than himself, Richard had fumbled at her jeans until Alex had smiled in that coy way at him -that way that would never look the same- and had reached down, undoing the button and stepping out of the jeans with more grace than she was typically reserved, stumbling only once. She'd laughed then and threw her pants in the same general direction as his shirt had gone, her fingers capturing the edge of her shirt and tugging it fluidly over her head. Then came the bra, and Strand had thought he understood what a religious experience was as her adept fingers pulled the clasp free.

     She'd looked so beautiful standing as she was in a pair of black underwear and nothing else that had wanted to devour her, to taste every inch of her flesh and make her gasp out his name. Richard had grabbed her by the hips then, he remembered so clearly how _warm_ she'd been, and steered her towards her desk. He wasn't young anymore, and it had been years since he'd been in this particular sort of position, but it was all muscle memory. Alex's hands in his hair, tugging and pulling as he kissed his way down her neck had been a catalyst for recollection. Strand's thumbs found the cotton of her panties then, hooking beneath them as he'd moved across her clavicle, down the tender, sensitive skin of her chest, leaving a treasure map down her torso to her stomach. She'd squirmed upon the desk, against the desk it stood before, one of her slender, petite legs hooked around his waist like an insistence. His left hand took the journey across her thigh to cup her hot desire, the thin fabric that obstructed him already so damp, so wet with her arousal.

    "Richard," Alex had keened at his exploratory touch, arching her hips upwards and casting her legs wide to grant him access to her, to all of her. He could have taken her then, could have had her upon that desk until she'd screamed his name so loudly someone walked in. But he wanted to take his time with Alex Reagan. So he'd raised his fingers again, hooking two from each hand beneath the undergarments and slowly drawing them down until they hooked upon her foot and she shed them with a flick of her toes.

     Alex Reagan, host of The Black Tapes, scourge of his life from time to time, was naked before him. Strand did not believe in gods or fortune made flesh, but he was thanking his stars then for what luck he had, to have this woman like this, so wet and open, her eyes glossy with the haze of sex and they'd only just begun. Kneeling before her like a man in prayer, Richard had kissed his way up her body, nipping a claim against her ankle, her knee, soothing the ache where his teeth scraped into the soft, supple flesh of her inner thigh. Then, just inches away from where she wanted him, where she _needed_ him so badly, Strand had drawn away. He felt her body tense and heard her petulant sigh, her fingers tugging where they'd wound into his hair. Up the next leg in a repetition of the process, until he could feel the tension and the mounting pressure of her want becoming tangible in the air. His breath ghosted across her need, and Alex Reagan shivered.

     "Richard." It had been years since any woman had uttered her name with such a powerful desire, and yet Strand knew the sound of it exactly. He had chuckled then in spite of himself, earning a second, more forceful tug at his graying locks. He was however, nothing if not eager to please Alex. He wanted to give her what no one else had, to be for her what no other person ever could be. His fingers had slid under her and Richard had tugged her closer, until she was perched at the end of the desk. The ground was hard beneath his knees but Alex Reagan was there, pliant and willing and quite literally in the palm of his hands.

    Coralee had always been adventurous, given the time and given all that had plagued their marriage. But it wasn't his lost wife Richard was thinking of as he had bowed his head and teased his tongue directly over that glorious pearl of want, the gentle, barely-there pressure at Alex's clitoris causing her to make noises that went straight to Strand's cock. Richard couldn't help but groan at the taste of her, a honey so sweet and so pure he was not entirely certain it could not have possessed addictive properties. Alex's thighs were an eager press as Richard's exploring tongue gently continued its journey, dipping into the folds of her and collecting the tangible results of her desire upon his tongue. His thumb grazed her clit, teasing little whimpers past her glorious strawberry lips, swollen with the effect of his kisses. There was something undeniably arousing to know that he'd done that, that he, Richard Strand, was causing Alex to make these noises and to look this way, a disheveled mess of sexual energy. Two fingers slipped into her wet, tight heat and his cock was eager to know it for himself. Alex had nodded before he'd even had cause to ask, and as Strand righted himself, his fingers still working a slow, tantalizing pace within her core that made her own fingers fumble, made her whimper as she struggled to release him when he'd curled his hand just right.

     But finally, finally, Strand had been free. A condom materialized in Alex's hand, from where he could not perceive, but then her touch was on him and Strand has been able to focus on nothing else but _this._ She stroked him as she slid it on, and once he was secure her hand twisted up and off of his cock, stroking him with a knowing touch. Nothing, however, could have compared to Alex, her eyes filled with mischief and want, drawing him closer, her skilled hand lining his thick member up with her wetness. And as Strand's fingers withdrew her hips had raised in a clear invitation.

     Strand grasped her shoulder gently with one hand, her hip in the other, and sunk slowly into that warmth, enveloped by her tight heat, by her desire. For a moment once he was completely sheathed he could do nothing but pant against her skin, lips mouthing at the flesh as he caught his breath. It was Alex who prompted him to move, and when he did he was slow, a gentle, tidal roll. He clutched her hip alone now for security, Alex leaning back what little she could upon the desk, papers strewn haphazardly about her. She looked entirely debauched, a clear picture of lust as Strand drew out from her need and paused for a moment, his free hand sliding up to tweak at her hardened nipples, until she whimpered so delightfully that he surged back within her, made her cry out with shock and pleasure both. That she was vocal shouldn't have surprised him so, but it was a welcome surprise, every sound that she made for him, because of him and what he was doing to her body. His thrust became harsher, more certain, and Alex moaned for him like she was seeing bliss, though her eyes were only half open, caught in her desire.

     It had been so long since he had been within a woman, and he knew he wouldn't last long. But he wanted to Alex come undone. His attentions became solely upon her, thrusts dedicated to learning what made her gasp, what made her whine, until he settled upon a rhythm which drew her breath up an octave with every graze against a particular set of nerves within her vice grip. Strand leant down and kissed her again, hard and bruising, and when he drew away he saw her hand between her legs, working furiously against her desire in a practiced rhythm that nearly made his knees buckle. He couldn't imagine the sight of her, spread out upon his bed, her fingers greedily pleasuring herself; the idea alone almost set him off.

    "Alex," Strand grunted, his rhythm slipping for a moment before he could reestablish it. Alex nodded, breath coming faster now.

     "I know-" She gritted her teeth. "Strand, Strand-"

     If he lived to be a hundred he would never know anything more beautiful than Alex Reagan, her body caught in the throes of orgasm. A cry left her lips and her back arched in a wondrous curve, toes curling against his skin. And the heat, the grip, became insurmountable. He was drawn in like a black hole and spilled himself within her with a muffled shout of his own, his hips rolling against her as he strained to catch his breath.

     Afterwords, there had been nothing but shame, until Alex had kissed him deeply and he thought that perhaps breaking the rules could be a good thing.


End file.
